Hey guys, thanks for reading! First authors note here I guess! Thanks for those who have followed this, I wasn't expecting to turn out as serious as it has been so far.

Just a warning, this is a short chapter…but a heavy one.

VII: Mother

Her father wasn't home when she walked in and untied the thick ribbon from her bonnet. Aimée set it on the worn wooden table, next to abandoned ledgers and accounts. The ink on Gérard's quill-tip was dried. Candles were snuffed and cold gray sunlight of a soon-to-arrive storm shone through the murky windows. She called through the house.

"Hello? Anyone home?" The house sat quiet.

Aimée's heart beat against her chest. Usually her mother called back to her or even Anna, the housemaid. There wasn't even the slightest creak in response. She hurried as best she could up the steps, her fingers absently gracing against her yellowed cheek, the bruise finally starting to wear away.

"Hello?" she called again, peeking her head around the upstairs bannister. "Anna? Papa? Mama?"

The house still waited in silence. Overhead, she heard a crack of thunder…but it was dull in her ears. She looked in her parent's bedroom, now only used by her father after her mother was placed in a spare room during her morning sickness. The bed was made, but the blanket slightly ruffled, like someone had slept without bothering to cover themselves in the night.

Aimée felt herself blanch, perspiration budding on her neck, back, and under her arms. This wasn't right…this wasn't right at all…Anna's little broom-cupboard of a room was deserted as well…neat, tidy and unused. Naturally, Aimée's little nest was untouched as well.

I was only at Beaudet's for a few days…where did everybody go? she thought quietly as she walked to the narrow staircase that led to the attic and spare room. This was where they would retreat if one of them fell ill, separating themselves from the rest of the household in order to contain the sickness. No one had used it in a year or so…the Lamenté's had been blessed with good health. Aimée only assumed that this was where her mother was staying. Maybe they were all up there…talking. Maybe they couldn't hear her calls from down below in the house. Anna would be coming down the stairs soon to start the evening meal.

"Why are all of you hiding up here?" Aimée called, smiling from her own thoughts as she climbed the staircase. "I've been looking everywhere for you!"

She stood on the last step in her common gray dress and reached for the knob. The door swung open with a slight creak, and Aimée walked into the small room, expecting to see her family.

Instead…the house echoed with the shrill sounds of her scream….

"She left?" Javert was puzzled.

The old nurse, Sister Elliot he believed her name was, folded a brown wool blanket and nodded. "Her and Mayor Beaudet had an argument of sorts, and she left. I hear her mother isn't having the best of luck with her pregnancy." Sister Elliot clucked her tongue as she began to strip the linens from the down mattress, "Poor souls…childbirth is such a harsh process."

Thunder rumbled overhead and the windows clouded over slowly into a grim grayness, even though it was only early evening. In no time at all, the patter of rain started to quietly tap at the panes. Javert continued to stand in the doorway, looking at the now stripped bed. He was picturing Aimée lying there, still weak from her attack, bruised. How had she left so soon? It had only been about three or four days, hadn't it? He wasn't sure.

"Where did she go?" he demanded, more harshly than he had intended.

Sister Elliot blinked confusedly, taken aback by his sudden change from puzzled to angry. "I haven't the slightest clue."

Javert bit the inside of his cheek and spun on his heel, leaving the room and Sister Elliot staring behind him. For reasons he could not explain, he felt agitated. Agitated, and worried. He had finally started at his post at his new promotion, overlooking the shipyard and commanding the prisoners and lower guards. He had switched out of his pale blue uniform for one of the same design, yet a deep navy color with polished buttons. Watching the scum work all day on the ropes made Javert's lip curl, made him think of the pig Anton. As time went on throughout the days, Javert had managed to work himself into a near frenzy, picturing the young man continuing to hurt women. He wanted to stop by the Mayor's estate after his shift to make sure that Anton was leaving Toulon…leaving Aimée.

But now the girl was gone, and the woman in charge of looking after her had no idea where she went.

"Monsieur Beaudet?" Javert called, too wound up to worry about formalities or courtesy. Luckily, he passed the large, main entrance way just as Beaudet was walking along the upstairs balcony. The fat mayor looked down and grinned. He bustled down the plush rug-covered stairs, his plump hand gliding effortlessly down the polished handrail. The mansion was still grand after the celebration decorations were torn down and stored away.

"Ah, Javert, how good to see you. The new uniform looks good! I trust you're settling in to your new post?"

"Uh…yes," Javert stumbled, suddenly remembering who he was talking to. "I was wondering if you knew where Mademoiselle Lamenté had gone."

The mayor's eyes turned sad as he nudged at a mud streak on a white tile with the toe of his shoe. "The young lady and I had a spat earlier today. I'm afraid she left. Only to go back home, I assumed, her mother was starting to grow sick from her pregnancy."

"You two fought?" Javert asked without reasoning.

Beaudet turned his attention to the carved etching on the far wall, a picture of a young maid, leaning over a bucket, her hair falling from her bonnet in stray wisps. "She was still upset about Anton."

Javert quickly put two and two together. "Gérard can't possibly still be thinking about engaging the two." His gray-green eyes flashed in stormy anger.

"The man loves his business."

"Monsieur, you're a good man…you won't tell him the truth of what happened?" Javert couldn't understand why the man had told him the story of his nephew the night of the party, yet withheld the information from the victim's own father.

Beaudet's eyes were pleading as he looked at his promoted guard. "It's not my place to interfere with Gérard's plans for Aimée, she is his daughter, not mine."

She was attacked by your pig of a nephew. You're letting him roam the streets then, aren't you, you lazy cow, Javert's mind was snarling words in his head faster than he could control them.

"I see," he instead said, allowing himself to give the mayor a curt nod. "I'll be taking my leave now."

"Javert…check in on her, will you? Stop by the home and see if she's alright. I want to make sure that she got home safely, especially in this oncoming storm. I don't trust the weather one bit."

Javert nodded. "I'll see to it."

Beaudet sent a carriage for him…but he ignored it and continued to walk towards the town.

There was blood soaked through the mattress. Blood on the sheets and blood on the floor. It had dried in the air, leaving a coppery taste and smell, and turned brown against the fabric. Wash bins sat abandoned, their water cloudy red with rags lying in the porcelain, and a chair sat overturned on the wood floor. Boot prints had left smears of coppery red on the floorboards.

In the corner, the tangy, sickly scent of Aimée's vomit mingled with the stench of stale blood. She was bent over, nearly in half, her hand pressed against her stomach and her other hand braced against the wall, trying to desperately support her. When her stomach was empty, and her retches turned into dry heaves, she struggled to regain her breath. Thunder cracked overhead and the window flashed by with lightning. Holding her sleeved wrist up to cover her nose and mouth, Aimée forced herself to look around the attic room. Lying on the floor next to the corner of the ruined mattress sat a glass vial with a red cross penned on the label. The doctor.

Quickly as her trembling legs could carry her, Aimée sprinted down the stairs and burst through the door. By now, God had opened the sky and the streets were slick and streaming with muddy water. Her shoes were ruined after two steps and the hem of her dress after four. Frightened and confused tears were streaming down her face and she spat as she ran, desperately trying to get the stale taste of her sick out of her mouth.

"Mademoiselle, wait! Mademoiselle Lamenté, stop!" the voice that cut through the rain was familiar, but not enough to make her stop. Gruff and strong, like the roiling ocean. It didn't matter…she was deaf as she ran. The words merely became muddled in the wet, slopping sounds of her footsteps, the rush of blood in her ears, and the booming thunder. She was gone through an alleyway in an instant, trying to get to the hospital as quickly as possible.

When she finally reached the stucco and wood building with the red cross on the door, she was exhausted and soaked. Heaving breath back into her lungs, she pushed open the door and frantically searched for her mother and father.

The hospital was one large room lined with white beds, the windows covered in white curtains, and the walls painted white. The upper level were rooms for the richly sick, and above that rooms for the Sisters and nurses. Not seeing anyone she recognized in the main infirmary, Aimée stumbled her way upstairs.

A nurse found her at the top of the stairwell, covered in mud and rain. "Lamenté… I'm looking for Melanie Lamenté," she gasped, barely able to speak without her lungs threatening collapse.

The nurse's eyes turned sad and she pointed down a cramped hall, "First door on the right, child."

Aimée was not graceful or controlled as she burst through the door. "Father? Mother?"

Gérard Lamenté was sitting in a chair next to a bed. He looked up to Aimée, his eyes dull with heavy, animalistic hurt and pain, red-rimmed and ugly. Above the bed hung a cross, the watchful face of crucified Jesus looking down on Aimée's small family. Gérard was clutching a pale, slender hand, which led to a strong wrist and a soft forearm. The forearm disappeared under a white linen sheet. Aimée clutched a hand to her face as her eyes fell on her mother's face covered by the linens. She shook her head violently. Gérard did not rise…he just continued to stare at his daughter as he clutched his dead wife's lifeless hand.

Aimée's world stopped. She felt the pain start low in her feet, rise to her knees, and spread through her chest. She wretched again against her mouth, but she had no more left in her stomach. Grief tore at her eyes and ears, sounding like screaming nails against a piece of slate and wracking her brain with painful stabs of light. She couldn't bring herself to approach the bed. Couldn't bring herself to reach out and touch the fabric that covered her mother's beautiful face and chestnut hair. Aimée wanted to see her freckles…see the slight gap between her rose lips when she smiled.

Without warning, the floor lurched to her right and she had to steady herself against the wall.

"Why didn't you tell me…" she finally choked out, her voice just a painful ghost of a whisper to be heard through the cutting silence.

Gérard opened his mouth, but he didn't realize no sound came out. "…I had…no time," he finally said, his voice sounding as rough as the sea."

"Where's her baby? Where's my brother?" she was sure it was a boy…could feel it in her heart and head.

Gérard merely looked at his daughter as God laughed cruelly in the form of thunder from above. For the first time, he noticed how much she looked like his Melanie, save for the blonde hair and lack of freckles. His wife's eyes stared back at him through his daughter's face.

"The little one did not live…Aimée…"

Aimée's mouth turned harshly downwards as she clenched her jaw until it threatened to shatter. The world lurched again and she had to turn away from her father to steady herself with both hands against the wall. Sobs wracked her body then…violent, thrashing things that ripped apart at her throat and lungs. Pressing her forehead against the rough stucco wall, she let out a wail that brought three nurses rushing into the room. They grabbed at her arms, trying to shush her and calm her down, but she was too far gone in pain and sorrow to realize what was happening. She pictured death around her, poking her and prodding her with skeletal fingers the color of ivory.

"NO!" Aimée screamed, lashing out and accidentally striking a middle-aged nurse across the chest, "Get away!"

"Aimée, stop it!" Gérard said, suddenly coming out of his stupor. "Aimée, come here!"

But as he approached, she saw him angry, about to strike her with the back of his hand and a harsh word. She remembered then how the flowers fell from her hand that day her father had struck her in the market.

She whirled like a crazed woman and bolted out the door, dazed and confused by grief and pain. Down the steps she went and out the hospital door. The rain continued to thunder down on her, mixing with her tears and adding to the misery that was starting to drown her heart.